


Dancing on a Pin

by erinacea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinacea/pseuds/erinacea
Summary: Crowley tempts Aziraphale into trying modern dancing. Things don't go exactly as planned.





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing romance. Also, my first multi-chaptered fic (even if it's just 2 chapters and an epilogue), and I've never written anything in present tense, either.
> 
> What I'm saying is, any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Of course, praise is welcome too. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tempts Aziraphale into trying modern dancing.

It must have been the alcohol, Crowley decides.

The champagne glasses have finally been drained, and Crowley has never enjoyed dessert as much as Aziraphale does. So he simply watches in silence as the angel savours the last of his Crème Brûlée. Finally Aziraphale puts down his napkin and looks at Crowley. “So, what do we do now?”

The thought slips out without taking a detour by way of his brain. “We could go dancing...”

He trails off, but Aziraphale immediately perks up. “Oh, I haven't danced since 1922!”

Crowley had. There had been plenty of opportunity both in Hell and on Earth, alone and with others. But never with Aziraphale. Somehow the thought makes his insides tie themselves into a knot. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all.

“Music has changed, angel,” he warns. “There are different dances now.”

“I know, dear. I'd like to go dancing with you.”

Aziraphale smiles, and for a moment, Crowley is about to pretend he’d been joking. But the angel is gazing at him expectantly and somehow he can't bring himself to take it back.

~ * ~ * ~

The place is called _The Country Club_ , but that must be one of those ironic names. Crowley doubts they've ever played anything as dated as Country music. Electronic music is all the rage right now, and if he's going to introduce Aziraphale to modern music he's not going to start with Country.

Judging by the queue, the club appears to be quite popular especially among the younger humans, but as far as Crowley is concerned, things such as queues don't apply to supernatural entities.

Crowley is so used to Aziraphale being, well, Aziraphale that only now it occurs to him that the angel's fashion choice might be a problem. He glances at the line of waiting youths. At least among the men, it appears like everyone is either wearing body-hugging clothes in bright or dark hues or artfully ripped jeans and shirts.

“I'm not sure how to put this, angel, but I don't think you're appropriately dressed.”

Self-consciously, Aziraphale glances at himself. He flicks a crumb off his waistcoat and straightens his bowtie. “Why ever not?”

In response to Crowley's tilt of the head, the angel glances around. “So many people,” he says admiringly. “Everybody must be so looking forward to dance.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Leave it to Aziraphale to completely miss the point. Despite being quite fussy about his own appearance, Aziraphale has always been surprisingly non-judgmental about what other people are wearing. This is not at all typical of angels, Crowley reflects, but then Aziraphale has never been a typical angel. Crowley is only too aware that over the centuries, some of his own stylistic experiments must have challenged even Aziraphale’s tolerance, but if they did the angel has never voiced his disapproval.

“ _Modern_ dancing,” Crowley stresses, “requires _modern_ clothing.”

“I like this suit. It's perfect for every occasion. Don't you like it?”

“Of course I do!” Crowley replies a little too quickly. “It suits you.” He decides to try a different tactic. “This waistcoat... it doesn't exactly allow for great manoeuvrability.”

Aziraphale furrows his brows. “I _am_ an angel.”

Crowley gives up. Aziraphale's right, and he's not about to ruin such a promising evening. And if this is Aziraphale's way of rebelling against society, he's not going to stop him.

When they jump the queue, a woman behind them immediately protests, “Hey! Get back in line!”

Before Crowley even has time to prepare his trademark roar, Aziraphale achieves the same result with a disarming smile. “Pardon me, ma'am, we’d really prefer not having to wait.” Caught by surprise, the woman nervously smiles back, which Aziraphale interprets as agreement. “Thank you very much!”

And just like that, the complaints stop.

Crowley can’t help grinning, but he manages to rearrange his features into cool disdain when the bouncer glances in their direction. Clearly he must have passed the test because the man nods him through without so much as a second glance. Other than Aziraphale, Crowley does not stand out among the crowd. Black leather, sun glasses and a stylish haircut, yeah, not a problem at all.

Crowley can’t quite relish the moment because now the bouncer is staring at Aziraphale, taking in the waistcoat and tartan bowtie with an air of disbelief, as if trying to decide if someone is playing a trick on him.

Forestalling the inevitable reaction, Crowley decides to intervene. “He's with me.”

The bouncer ignores this and instead rounds on Aziraphale. “You fucking kidding me?” he growls, looking the angel up and down in disgust. “Get lost!”

Crowley bristles at Aziraphale's crestfallen expression. Like he’d leave the angel behind! Briefly raising his shades, he sends his full demonic glare at the muscled guard. “ _He_ 's with _me_ ,” he hisses.

Deeply rooted instinct makes the man recoil in alarm, his eyes widening in terror as they meet Crowley's own slitted pupils. Once he manages to wrest his gaze away, he blinks furiously a few times in a futile attempt to shake off the memory. Then, visibly shaken and carefully not looking at either of them, he waves them both through.

As he sweeps through the door, Crowley smiles in smug satisfaction. Behind him, Aziraphale pauses to, once again, apologize and thank the man. _Typical_. Crowley rolls his eyes.

~ * ~ * ~

Inside, Crowley finds himself right at home. He can feel his pupils dilate as they adapt to the darkness. Except for the occasional neon light flickering on and off, it’s comfortably gloomy. Tendrils of artificial smoke waver in the air. From behind the massive door at the bottom of the narrow stairs he can hear the sound of muffled bass. Already the beat is making his skin pulse pleasantly.

With an expectant grin he turns towards Aziraphale, only to find that the latter has stopped half-way down the stairs.

“Angel?” he queries.

“I don't know, Crowley. This reminds me of…” He points. “Below.”

Crowley freezes. _Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Shit!_

How could he not have thought of this?! Of course this place would remind the angel of Hell. After all, it had only been yesterday – had it been only yesterday? – that they had both faced their respective trials and survived against all odds. Where, to him, the dark surroundings were merely hauntingly familiar, full of, well obviously not happy memories, but a kind of natural environment, Aziraphale must be reliving the worst moments of his entire existence.

Crowley had seen Heaven before, although the last time had been a few millennia ago. It hadn't changed much, either. He would have expected them to have added plants, at least – he had fallen before the Creation of plants – but Head Office was still as pristine as he’d remembered.

As for the trial, he'd been a bit nervous, but angels were sticklers to the rules. Okay, so he’d had to stop himself from pointing out that Aziraphale was more worthy than the lot of them, but all _he_ got was a stern talking-to, followed by a neat execution.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had never had reason to set foot into Hell before. And the first time he did, he was surrounded by his worst enemies watching his every step and Hell-bent on erasing him from the universe.

Hell was not, as a rule, known for neat executions. Their style went more along the lines of dismemberment and lakes of molten sulphur... Crowley feels sick, only now realizing the danger the angel had braved. Sure, when he’d next seen him, Aziraphale had seemed fine, unscathed, relaxed. They’d even shared a laugh about it all.

But he hadn't even _asked_!

“Shit, angel. I- I didn't realize.” He rushes to Aziraphale's side. “Are you alright? I'm sorry! Do you want to leave? We can go back to the bookshop if you'd like.”

The angel smiles at him uncertainly. “I thought you wanted to dance.”

“I do. But not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Is modern dancing that terrible?” With anyone else, Crowley would have called the quirk of the eyebrow an attempt at being flirty, but this _is_ Aziraphale.

Not to be side-tracked, he persists. “Did they hurt you? I swear, if they hurt you –” His heart thumps painfully at the mere thought.

“Of course they didn't, dear. That was the whole point of swapping faces.”

Aziraphale certainly seems sincere, though Crowley wonders whether the angel has any idea what the other options – other than holy water – could have been. He resolves to tell him, but at some later point, not now. For now, he’s simply relieved.

Slowly, Crowley's heart rate returns to normal. “I’m sorry. You just seemed so –” He trails off.

“I'm fine, my dear.” Aziraphale offers a gentle smile. “I was merely surprised that you'd want to return to a place so reminiscent of...” He lowers his voice, “Hell.”

Crowley quirks a grin at him. “Surprisingly, Hell _does_ have its good sides. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Of course it does, Crowley. It's got _you_.”

Again, Crowley's heart skips a beat, though for an entirely different reason. Aziraphale sees Good in everyone, but for some reason he places a particularly large amount of faith in Crowley. He's tried, again and again, to disavow him of that notion. One day, he fears, the angel will see the snake within and turn away in disgust.

Aziraphale rouses him from his reveries. “Shall we then?” He nods at the door.

“Oh. Yeah.”

~ * ~ * ~

The floor is vibrating under his feet, and Crowley is enjoying himself quite a bit. The electronic music is much faster than he’d expected, but he’s possessed this body for so long that it only takes minimal experimentation to get the hang of dancing at high speed.

Though both the crowd and swirling fog make this harder than he’d like, he makes sure to keep a close eye on Aziraphale, who appears to be having trouble adjusting to the music. Clearly, even without his eccentric clothing, Aziraphale would have stood out like a bright light in the dark. Currently the angel is attempting a series of complicated dance steps that not only are much too slow for the beat but also make him repeatedly bump into people. Aziraphale's so earnest about it that Crowley can't quite suppress a smile.

Without at all meaning to, the angel has managed to clear a small bubble of empty space around him. A few curious onlookers are clearly waiting for him to break into acrobatic dance moves. And wouldn't that be a sight to see?

Crowley weaves his way into Aziraphale's bubble, which admits him effortlessly. “Having fun?” he shouts.

Aziraphale loses count and stumbles slightly. “What?!” he yells back. Although Crowley can’t actually hear it, it’s clear that this is what the angel is saying.

“Are you –” Crowley shouts into his ear. Oh, this is ridiculous. At a snap of his fingers, the volume within their bubble obediently recedes to a more manageable level. “Are you having fun?”

“Oh, thank you, my dear! It was frightfully loud.”

“But are you enjoying yourself?”

“Well, it's not really my kind of music...”

Crowley smirks. “So I've noticed. The Gavotte, really?”

Aziraphale's ears turn pink. “It's the only dance I know.”

Crowley shrugs. “I don't think there are any rules for this kind of music. I think the humans just improvise on the spot.”

Thoughtfully, Aziraphale turns to watch the other dancers. Crowley follows his gaze. Indeed, there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the dancing. Some people are swaying back and forth or, more energetically, bouncing up and down in time with the beat. Other dancers gyrate their hips or rhythmically contort their bodies, while others again appear to continuously shift their weight from one leg to the other. And some…

With a shocked look Aziraphale turns back to face Crowley. “Have you seen that?” He discretely points at a nearby couple, who although fully clothed, or at least sufficiently clothed in the relevant areas, appear to be humping one another in time with the beat. “This is bordering on indecent, Crowley. Why on Earth would you invite me into this –?” He looks lost for words.

“Den of iniquity?” Crowley grins, in response to which the angel narrows his eyes.

“Calm down, angel. Let the mortals have some fun.”

Aziraphale snorts, glancing at the couple. “They are, aren’t they?”

“Do you want to _leave_?”

“You keep asking that. Do _you_ like this music?”

While he _does_ prefer rock music, Crowley is quite enjoying the outing. Teasing Aziraphale is just part of the fun. “Well, yeah.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I'll get us some drinks.”

“Great idea! A Bloody Mary for me!”

Predictably, this makes the angel squirm. Crowley grins. It's so easy to wind him up.

~ * ~ * ~

For some time Crowley amuses himself with twisting his corporation to the rhythm. But by now even he realizes that his movements are becoming progressively less smooth and more asymmetrical as, again and again, he finds himself craning his neck in direction of the bar.

Where the Hell _is_ Aziraphale? Did he get lost? He didn't leave, did he?

Once the angel had left their private dancing bubble, Crowley had lifted the restriction on the noise level. It had taken a distressingly short time for the other dancers to reclaim the empty space. Since there’s no longer any point in saving the spot, Crowley decides to search for Aziraphale instead. Pushing through the crowd, he winds his way to the bar.

When he finally spots the familiar head of blond hair, he breathes a sigh of relief. Aziraphale is sitting on a bar stool and appears deep in conversation with a dark-haired stranger, and _that_ stops Crowley in his tracks.

Of course it's not a problem, he tells himself. Aziraphale can talk to whoever he likes to. Of course he can. But does the man have be standing _that_ close to the angel? Even leaning down to speak into his ear? And why is Aziraphale _smiling_ like that? Crowley takes an immediate and intense dislike to this stranger.

The music is less deafening here, but he’s still too far away to hear what they’re saying. He suppresses the impulse to join them right away and instead merely watches their interaction with narrowed eyes. When he sees the stranger lean forward to pat Aziraphale’s arm, however, Crowley reacts instantly and manifests at Aziraphale's other side.

“Hey! Where have you been, angel?”

Aziraphale startles. “Oh, hello, Crowley. I, um, forgot about your drink. Sorry about that! But I already paid. It’s over there.” With a sheepish grin he nods at the counter.

Then he gestures at the stranger. “This is Ted. He works at the Maughan Library. It's really quite fascinating. Ted, this is Crowley…”

“Fascinating,” Crowley echoes without so much as glancing at the man.

He grabs the indicated glass. “Yes, I believe this is _mine_ ,” he comments to no one in particular. The drink. Of course he's talking about the drink. But if the stranger – _Ted_ – understands him to mean Aziraphale, that's fine by him, too. He scowls. “Aziraphale, let's go!”

“Um, I was having a conversation here…” the angel objects.

Crowley can _feel_ the man glare daggers at him, or at least piteously attempt to. When he turns his head, the stranger scowls at him. “I was here _first_!”

“Is that so?” Crowley hisses. “ _I_ was there at the Beginning. How about you?”

For a second or two, he entertains the satisfying notion of sending him to the moon. The stranger, that is. Or possibly Aziraphale. As long as it's interrupting their – whatever they're doing.

But mortals don't deal well outside the protective terrestrial atmosphere and Aziraphale would not take kindly to Crowley killing his friend. And he doesn't actually _want_ Aziraphale to go anywhere else. He'd already come too close to losing him over the last few days.

What he _could_ do, easily, is frighten the stranger off. But given the disapproving look that Aziraphale is sending him already when he hasn't even done anything, it makes him worry if even that might cause the angel to not talk to him for a century.

As if reading his mind, Aziraphale finally speaks up. “Crowley…” he warns.

Having come to a decision, Crowley turns on his heel. “I'm leaving, angel.”


	2. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale reacts to Crowley's weird behaviour. Their conversation sheds new light on their relationship in a way that changes everything.

_Having come to a decision, Crowley turns on his heel. “I'm leaving, angel.”_

Wait, what?!

“Crowley, wait!” But the demon is already striding off without so much as a backwards glance.

Aziraphale hurries after him. “Listen, I'm sorry about your drink!”

Truly, he is. But it’s not entirely true that he forgot about it as he’d claimed earlier. The drinks had merely been an excuse to begin with, an opportunity to escape the fast-paced beeps and noisy thuds that humans dare to call “music” nowadays. It had been a relief to find the bar nestled in an alcove that was shielded from the worst of the racket. Rather than take their drinks and return to Crowley right away, he’d chosen to take his time to sip his own Piña Colada in this unexpected oasis of relative quiet. Then Ted had approached him and he’d become engrossed in conversation with this stranger who seemed just as interested in reading as he was. Aziraphale had fully intended to return to the dance floor eventually and simply hadn’t realized how long he’d been away.

Crowley whirls around. “Who cares about the fucking drink?!”

That's an odd reaction. “Um. You _did_ take it with you,” Aziraphale points out.

“Not gonna waste any alcohol...”

“Crowley, dear. What’s wrong?” Aziraphale inquires in what he considers a quite reasonable tone. “Was it something I said?”

Crowley scowls. “You were fraternizing with a human!”

“Fra- _Fraternizing_? I was having a –”

“After everything we've been through!” the demon hisses.

“I can talk to whomever I want,” Aziraphale snaps.

“Right,” Crowley spits. This is followed by a surly mutter that sounds like, “Free will and all that.”

Visibly agitated, Crowley takes a swig of his cocktail. Then he rounds on Aziraphale again. “He was _touching_ you!”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. He’s quite used to Crowley being a bit overprotective but this overreaction is unusual. It’s not like the contact had _meant_ anything.

“He was quite... inebriated,” he explains.

Scowling, Crowley gulps down the rest of his drink. “So 'm I.” For a moment, he stares at his empty glass, then vanishes it with a flick of his fingers. “Look, I'm sorry.” He rubs his face with his hand.

Aziraphale's annoyance evaporates. Somehow Crowley's apologies – at least the sincere ones – never fail to have this effect.

“You _do_ tend to get a bit touchy-feely yourself when you're drunk,” he points out with a tinge of amusement.

“I do?” The demon blinks. “'m sorry,” he slurs. “Am _I_ bothering you?”

What?! “You _never_ bother me!” Aziraphale blurts out.

Crowley looks rather sceptical at this pronouncement, and Aziraphale can hardly blame him. “Well, I- I guess sometimes... It's part of your job.” He can feel his cheeks burn. “I don't mind.”

“Why did you leave, though? Not come back, I mean, with the drinks?” Crowley's voice screws itself into an uncharacteristic whine. “What was so fascinating about that human, anyway?”

Aziraphale stares. Could it be? For the demon to be so upset about an innocent chat with a human… and then there had been his earlier outburst about a simple friendly touch. It’s almost as if he _cares_. But that's impossible! Surely, surely Crowley must know how _he_ feels.

Tentatively, like he would to a wounded animal, Aziraphale reaches out. “Crowley, dearest, are you...? I mean I can't help noticing...” He takes a deep breath. “You sound quite a bit... jealous?” As he says this, his heart hammers wildly in his ribcage. It's stupid, really, to hope that a demon could possibly... He sends a silent prayer to he's not sure who. _Please._

“Hardly,” Crowley grits out without, Aziraphale notices, quite looking at him.

Aziraphale decides not to take him at his word. Demons are habitual liars, after all, and although he trusts Crowley with his life, he knows he can't expect the demon to be open about any feelings he might, potentially, harbour.

“Look at me, Crowley,” he pleads. When Crowley does, Aziraphale mentally curses the darkness that obscures the demon’s beautiful features. He carefully advances to get a closer look, and with a practiced murmur of “Let there be light” the surrounding area is bathed in a soft glow.

Crowley is still staring at him, and for the flicker of a moment, Aziraphale can see the demon’s face contort in anguish before Crowley manages to carefully school it into a more neutral expression. But Aziraphale knows what he’s seen. He’s sure he didn’t imagine _that_. His chest is filled with a million butterflies fluttering their wings and for a moment he feels the absurd inclination to join them.

Heart racing, he decides to take the plunge. “Crowley. My dear, dearest Crowley. I –” He swallows. “There's never been anyone else. I _-_ I _love_ you.”

The demon scoffs. “Of course you do. You're an angel. You love everything.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. How can Crowley not understand, not see what must be so plainly written all over his face?

He smiles uncertainly at him. “I don't think falling in love with a demon is part of the job description.”

Crowley's head whips up. Though it’s hard to tell through the glasses, his pupils look unnaturally dilated.

“In love,” he chokes out, his voice full of disbelief. He also is, most worryingly, swaying. “You're –” Crowley breathes, “in– _love_? With _me_?' The last word slips out in a most undemonic squeak.

Aziraphale nods. “Ever since you rescued me in that church.”

And the books, he remembers fondly. Somehow Crowley’s decision to save the books had made more of an impression on him than the daring rescue itself. He had always held a particular interest in prophecies and would have been devastated to find them burnt to cinders. He knew he should be taking better care of his corporation but, worst case, if it got destroyed, he’d have to file a lot of paperwork to apply for a new body. The books, on the other hand, had been irreplaceable first editions, some of them signed by their original authors!

Aziraphale hadn't even had to say anything. In fact, as far as he remembered, there had been no mention of the books at all once Crowley had joined the conversation. And yet the demon had known and had _cared_ enough to make sure that they, too, survived the bombing. All because he'd known it would make Aziraphale smile. And it had. Even now the mere recollection fills his heart with light.

With eighty years of delay a second realization edges its way into Aziraphale's consciousness. Had Crowley been in _love_ with him, even then?

“What about you?” he croaks.

Crowley stays silent. Aziraphale's head – and heart – are racing. Should he say something else? But really, what more than _“I love you_ ” is there to say?

Seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes into centuries, or that's how it feels to Aziraphale, who doesn't quite dare to breathe.

Finally, with a tired sigh, Crowley takes off his glasses, letting them dangle loosely in his hand, and just _looks_ at him. Aziraphale's breath hitches. In six thousand years he's never seen the demon look so vulnerable.

“Crowley…” he whispers.

“Rome,” the demon finally replies. “After the fire. We had oysters.”

The Great Fire of Rome, Aziraphale remembers. Crowley had been so distraught to see the consequences of his actions that he'd drunk himself into a stupor. Aziraphale hadn't had the heart to chastise him any further. Instead, to the demon's obvious surprise, he had congratulated him on a job well done and invited him to dinner. That had just been the first of Crowley's bouts of self-loathing he had witnessed over the centuries. Crowley may deny it, but Aziraphale is only too aware that this particular demon has always had a good heart.

“But that was almost two thousand years ago!” he gasps. “Why didn't you ever say anything?”

Crowley grimaces. “Can't drag you Down with me, can I? I mean, corrupting an angel...” The pain in his voice is clearly audible.

Aziraphale feels his heart contract in sympathy as he marvels at the sheer magnitude of Crowley's sacrifice. He feels an irrepressible urge to hug him and bridges their remaining distance in an instant, but at the last moment contents himself with simply capturing Crowley’s hand instead. The demon jerks and his mouth drops open in surprise. He doesn’t return the squeeze but also makes no move to pull back his hand either.

“Crowley, dear heart,” Aziraphale croons. “I'm sure the Almighty wouldn't object to _love_.”

Crowley closes his eyes with another pained grimace. “Might. Would. 's fucking _ineffable_ ,” he sneers. But it’s too late. Aziraphale has already seen the plea in those slitted eyes that mirror, all too clearly, his own hopes and fears.

Crowley had always been brave, Aziraphale reflects, and at times distressingly reckless. Whenever Aziraphale had been in trouble, the demon had somehow managed to show up in time to save his skin. (And _that_ makes a lot more sense now.) Maybe tonight, after thousands of years, it's finally up to _him_ to drag Crowley – to drag them both – out of this pit of misery. This can't be harder than facing the vilest creatures of Hell. Can it?

“Well,” he hears himself say. “I don't care what _anyone_ thinks.” And it's true. Everybody that matters already knows they're best friends, so why not take it one step further? Rationally he knows that all they did was buy themselves a reprieve, but right now, with the image of a future _together_ so vivid in his mind, how can he abandon the smidgen of a chance of happiness? Not even give it a try?

When Aziraphale, ever so carefully, interlaces his fingers with the demon’s, Crowley, watching him warily, allows this to happen. And is he imagining the tiniest squeeze back?

Heart fluttering wildly, Aziraphale raises his other hand to Crowley’s face to tenderly stroke the demon’s cheek. Crowley’s eyes are so wide now that their beautiful yellow is almost completely obscured by the blackness of his pupils. For a moment Aziraphale finds himself lost in their reflection of his own longing. Their faces are so close now that really, all he has do is lean in, like _this_ , to – feeling positively brazen – tentatively brush his lips against Crowley's, like _this_...

He _doesn't_ combust on the spot. No lightning bolt crashes from Above to obliterate the both of them. That's good, of course. That’s very, very good.

The feel of Crowley's lips against his own, however, is indescribable. Their searing warmth burns its way through Aziraphale's corporation, and for a moment he simply allows himself to revel in the sensation.

When, seconds later, he opens his eyes again, he realizes to his horror that Crowley _still_ hasn't moved. _No_. He feels his heart stutter. _Nonononono._ The demon still appears rooted to the spot, still wide-eyed, swaying slightly. _Please no._ What if he has completely misjudged everything? What if demons are not _allowed_ to feel love? _Please... please no._

Defeated, Aziraphale draws away. “I- I'm sorry, my dear.”

He feels the tell-tale prickle in his eyes that tells him they’re beginning to water. Blinking furiously, he ducks his head to hide it. It’s all just so, so painful and humiliating. He was _so_ close to happiness.

“I'm so, so sorry,” he whispers. “I- I- I shouldn't have –”

Swallowing hard, he wrenches at his hand to pull it free.

Crowley blinks. In a single instant he finally uncoils. (There really is no other word for it.) He squeezes his hand, hard, and tugs in the opposite direction, which causes Aziraphale, overwhelmed by the turmoil of emotions, to stumble into Crowley’s chest.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, and his voice quavers with the ache of centuries.

Sneakily, the demon snakes his other arm around Aziraphale’s waist. For a moment Aziraphale can feel the forgotten glasses being crunched against his back before Crowley evidently decides to drop them. Only then does Crowley allow himself to disentangle their fingers to gently clasp Aziraphale’s chin instead. Aziraphale’s lungs are aching. It seems he has forgotten how to breathe.

Crowley presses a warm kiss into the curve next to Aziraphale’s nose, where, Aziraphale now realizes, a tear must have slipped free, after all.

The demon briefly pulls back. “Don’t you _dare_ apologize!” he hisses. “You’ve done nothing, _nothing_ wrong.”

Crowley’s thumb gently strokes Aziraphale’s lips, then wanders to the back of his neck. He kisses Aziraphale’s brow. “Oh, angel,” he sighs. “Aziraphale…”

As nice as this feels, Aziraphale wants more. With a mewling sound from deep within his throat that sounds positively sinful to his own ears, he greedily angles his face like _so_... For a moment, their noses sharply smack into each other, causing both of them to wince, and then Crowley – _Crowley!_ Aziraphale jubilates – is kissing him back. Heat courses through his body and burns away any lingering doubts. No matter what Heaven or Hell might think of this, _this_ cannot be wrong. _This_ is bliss.

Aziraphale wraps both arms around Crowley’s neck to pull him even closer. In response, Crowley tightens his own grip and deepens their kiss even more. Somehow their tongues intertwine and… _oh_ , he'd had no idea… All reason flees Aziraphale's mind under the onslaught of sensations.

~ * ~ * ~

When they finally pull apart, the brightness of Crowley’s smile makes Aziraphale marvel that, demon or no, a fallen angel will _always_ remain an angel. Aziraphale smiles back, and it feels like his corporation is about to burst with happiness. If it did, he decides, it would have been worth it. (Though it would certainly make for interesting paperwork.)

This time it’s Crowley, who, with careful deliberation, interlocks their fingers. “What do you say, angel?” the demon purrs. “Wanna go home?”

_Home_. The thought makes Aziraphale’s chest ache. That would be the bookshop then, or possibly Crowley’s flat, only now they’d be _home_. Not just _his_ home or Crowley’s, but _theirs_. This thought is accompanied by a strong sense of yearning that makes him, desperately, want to say “ _yes”_.

And yet at the same time he's terrified that they might be moving too fast again. It had only taken a few minutes to up-end their six-thousand-year friendship, and _that_ had been about time. But...

“I can’t…” he murmurs helplessly. “Not yet. I’m sorry, love. I- I don't ever want tonight to end.”

Crowley cocks an eyebrow. “I thought you didn't like the music.”

Only now Aziraphale registers the rapid beat he previously had found so frustrating. Somehow, Crowley's presence had managed to drown that out completely.

“It's all going a bit too fast for me,” he admits. He's not entirely sure whether he's talking about the music now or the fragile status of their relationship, but blessedly, Crowley understands.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he agrees with a warm gaze that Aziraphale is quickly getting used to. “It’s okay, angel. We can take it as slow as you'd like.”

Crowley does a complicated gesture with the hand that’s not entwined in Aziraphale’s and, on cue, the music changes into a slow waltz. The demon grins at him. “Care to dance, angel?”

Aziraphale’s heart sputters. “Um, I don't know how to dance that one either.”

Crowley quirks another smile. “Honestly? Me either.”

Leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s, Crowley firmly wraps his arm around Aziraphale’s waist in that new way that makes Aziraphale feel safe and happy and _home_. “I suppose we’ll have to learn together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Romans played an important part in Europe's history, including England's, so I figured it's a reasonable assumption that the meeting shown in the series was only their first encounter in ancient Rome.


	3. Epilogue

The _Country Club_ was frantic. Somehow and all of a sudden, the fast-paced electronic beat had been replaced with classical music. Even now, dozens of club-goers were streaming towards the exit.

Security was busy preventing others from swarming the bewildered DJ, who was sure, absolutely positive, that she didn't have anything more dated than the late 20th century on her laptop. Someone must have hacked it, but to play _that_ instead? What kind of prank was that?! And most confusingly of all, even after she had unplugged all the systems, a slow waltz continued to blare from the boxes.

Only two people had remained on the dance floor. _They_ didn't seem bothered by the uproar in the slightest and hadn't even appeared to notice. It was like they were dancing in their own private little universe. A couple that had seen the world whirl by and, against all odds, had managed to hold on tightly to each other.

So closely were they intertwined that any watching theologians might have found themselves debating whether they'd count as two angels, or one, dancing on a pin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment. You might also want to check out my other (Good Omens) stories, too. :)


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